


Five-Card Stud

by Lokifan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Groping, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humiliation, M/M, Multi, Public Hand Jobs, Public Humiliation, Revenge, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 17:25:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6160998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokifan/pseuds/Lokifan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco gets drunk at an eighth-year party, and makes bad decisions. Such as strip poker with people who were on the other side of a war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five-Card Stud

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for geneva2010's prompt at hp-kinkfest.

Draco didn’t know quite how he’d ended up here. It had begun as an eighth-years’ party in an abandoned classroom near Ravenclaw Tower. Pansy had dragged him along, insisting that the Slytherins weren’t going to let the other houses have a party without them. “They might try and exclude us, whatever the teachers say about reconciliation -- but I’m damned if we’re going to _let_ them. As if their parties would be any good without some Slytherin spirit!”

Greg and Draco had spent the first half of the party in a corner with some Slytherin spirits. True to form, Greg had over-indulged and by eleven Pansy was staggering out with him leaning heavily on her. “I’ll take him to bed,” she said, giving him a look both faintly apologetic and fierce.

Now it was just Draco and Blaise. They stared at each other for a moment, and then Blaise produced a pack of cards from his back pocket. “Wanna play a game?”

“Yes,” Draco decided. “Nothing that requires too much brain power.”

“Hippogriffs?”

“Fine, I’m not bothered.”

“Oi, Zabini, come over here!” Draco turned to see Seamus Finnigan waving from one corner, where they’d pushed a bunch of desks together. “Want to play poker with those?”

Blaise paused, then smiled. “Yeah, alright.” He grinned as he walked over and began to shuffle the pack, so easily charming when he wanted to be. Draco liked to think he could be charming himself, but he hadn’t inherited an ability to make people forget what happened to the last seven wealthy husbands.

Draco couldn’t make people forget anything at all.

Blaise turned. “Coming?”

Draco sat down at the table, then his stomach swooped as he registered Dean Thomas. 

If he got up again now it’d be worse than awkward. Draco couldn’t stop himself from sending Blaise a fleeting pleading look. Blaise looked away in favour of giving Padma Patil a slow smile, and stepped on Draco’s foot.

The sixth person at the table was a seventh-year Hufflepuff girl named Rachel who had got off with Nott once at a party. Draco sent her a quick smile and she smiled back, automatically polite.

“Want a drink?” Draco offered, holding out the bottle of Frostwhiskey he still had in his hand.

Padma took the bottle and glugged back some. She put it down on the table with a glassy bang, mouth slick. “Cheers.”

“What kind of poker do we wanna play?” Blaise asked, shuffling the deck. For a moment Draco was mesmerised by his narrow, clever hands. They blurred a little and he blinked, deciding not to drink any more for the moment. “Maybe draw poker? Keep it simple, since we’re all kind of…” He made an elegant, aimless gesture, shaking his head.

“Well, if we’re going to keep it simple, let’s make it interesting,” Finnigan said with a sudden grin. “Strip poker.”

“What?” Draco spluttered. He was echoed by the Hufflepuff.

“Come on!” said Finnigan. “What, Mummy doesn’t like her pwecious pureblood boy playing dirty games?”

Draco hesitated, feeling the ground shift under his feet. His mother would be furious, actually, but that wasn’t the point --

“Why not, Malfoy?” Thomas said softly. “Not a coward, are you?”

Draco swallowed. If he wasn’t so drunk he could think of a way out of this, he was sure. They didn’t care about him playing some stupid game, it was just a power play. He blinked dizzily. But he _was_ drunk, and if he paused any longer the illusion that they were all just old playground rivals, that everything was okay really, would crumble.

“Never!” Draco declared. “Just a chivalrous gent concerned with the lady’s reservations.” He nodded at Hufflepuff Rachel and she made a face.

“Ugh, Malfoy. I’m in.”

“Great!” said Padma. “Deal, Zabini, we can change dealers each round.”

Draco picked up his five cards, eyes flickering over the others’ faces as they took in their hands. Draco’s wasn’t bad - two pairs - though it didn’t improve when he replaced a card. They all stayed in, agreeing that if they all stayed in each round it’d be more interesting, and Thomas had the worst hand. 

Finnigan hooted good-naturedly, and Padma wolf-whistled. Thomas laughed and removed his tie, throwing it to Padma, who’d had the best hand. She raised it above her head in victory, then tied it round her head like a bandana.

Blaise started to hand the deck to Draco.

“Nah, let’s go widdershins,” Finnigan said quickly.

“Direction of bad magic,” muttered Rachel, but she took the pack.

They kept playing, and the squirming anxiety in Draco’s stomach kept his pulse fast. They were laughing together; Blaise made a joke about the DA being a great place to meet girls and Finnigan ran with it and Padma gave them a significant look from under her eyeliner and agreed. It was fun, it was what should be happening at a party. Draco hadn’t lost a round yet while Rachel had lost her jumper and Thomas both shoes. Everything was fine.

Except _nothing_ was okay, and the cognitive dissonance of it was making Draco’s skin crawl.

By the sixth round, Draco had had some close shaves but hadn’t lost anything. Draco took the cards, but before he could even begin to shuffle them, Finnigan had reached over and plucked the pack from his hands.

“Don’t look like that,” Thomas said, gently admonishing. “We’re hardly gonna trust _you_ with them, are we?”

Draco froze. After a moment, Finnigan handed Blaise the cards. Blaise dealt without missing a beat, kindly avoiding Draco’s eyes so Draco wouldn’t have to face him. Draco numbly took his hand, chest and cheeks stinging with humiliation, but not quite able to stop. The mortification of storming out, the rest of the party finding out what had just happened, was the only thing worse than the mortification of accepting it as his due.

He made a stupid mistake that round, and ended up losing. He took off his jumper, muttering, “it’s hot in here anyway,” - _why_ couldn’t he ever learn to be a good loser - and the game continued. Draco took a freezing mouthful of Frostwhiskey and blinked down at his cards. 

He could get a run, maybe, if he drew two new cards. So he stayed in, and ended up losing for the second time in a row. “Shaaaame,” gloated Finnigan. Draco rolled his eyes and unlaced his shoe, dropping it dramatically on the floor.

Finnigan lost a shoe next; he held it in front of him and did a hips-thrusting little dance while Padma and Rachel squealed in faintly-mocking glee. Blaise lost his tie, and slid it round Padma’s neck. Rachel lost a round, and teasingly undid a few buttons on her shirt before sliding off a shoe instead. 

The cards passed Draco again. This time Blaise didn’t pause, just holding out his hand to take them from Rachel. Draco drank again, trying to pretend he barely noticed.

Conversation turned to the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, a former Auror who’d suffered nerve damage in the Battle of Hogwarts, and whether she was more likely to turn out to be evil, be tragically killed, or flee the school.

“No no no, the curse is broken,” insisted Rachel. “She’s going to be fine. She’ll probably die here and keep teaching like Binns.”

Draco snorted. “The only thing more powerful than magic is tradition,” he said. “This whole pile runs on it. She’ll bow to expectation and leave, or Hogwarts’ll take her out with a tragically crumbling staircase.”

“I do actually have a betting pool running,” Blaise said delicately. “Five Sickles a shot?”

“One bout of gambling at a time, Zabini,” Padma said, dealing with a flourish. “I’m going to have your shirt before the night is over.”

Blaise’s grin was filthy. He opened his mouth and Draco kicked him.

Draco lost a sock. He flexed his foot against the cold stone, aware he only had a tie and sock left before important things started to go.

Padma lost the next round, and Draco and Blaise shared an eager look before groaning as she removed a shoe. They turned back to the next round. Draco saw Thomas and Finnigan glance at each other when Blaise stayed in for the second round. They looked pleased.

Blaise lost. He made an enormous production of taking off his shirt, though he still had his socks left. Draco could feel he was a little flushed, and he held the bottle of Frostwhiskey against his face, trying to regain his train of thought.

The next round cost Rachel her other shoe, and then Blaise lost twice in a row. In just trousers and one sock, he shook his head and dumped his cards. “I’m out.”

“What? No!” said Rachel. “You can’t wimp out now.”

“Yes I can,” Blaise said cheerfully. “No shame.” He clapped Draco on the back. “No concern for House glory, et cetera. Good luck, Malfoy.”

Draco glared at him, wishing for Greg. And Vince, but he couldn’t think about that. “Goyle wouldn’t leave,” Draco muttered. “He’d stay with me til the bitter end.”

“Yes he would,” Blaise hissed back. “I’m bright enough to get out now.”

And then Draco was the lone Slytherin at the table. It shouldn’t matter, they were all adults now, but he looked at them all watching him and it _did_.

He reached for the Frostwhiskey again, and raised it. “Come on, next round!”

Padma dealt and Draco gulped the Frostwhiskey. Soon it was finished, and Thomas wondered off briefly in search of another bottle or two of something interesting. Draco got drunker, wanting to pretend everything was normal. It was people playing a stupid game and getting drunk and taking their clothes off at a party. It was what eighteen-year-olds did. He’d done shots off people’s nipples at a Slytherin party or two; he shouldn’t be worried about this, shouldn’t feel his stomach clench as he stared down at a bad hand.

None of it meant anything. They were just playing around.

If he had any sense he’d leave like Blaise had, claim drunkenness and go to bed. But he wasn’t that bright, he never had been. He was going to keep trying. He wasn’t bad at poker, he shouldn’t be losing this much, and he… he never learnt, apparently.

The misery of that knowledge made it even more impossible to give up.

The party was beginning to quieten; it was nearly two o’clock, and people were either drunk and in for the long haul or gone. As the cards went round the table, Draco noticed that they’d begun to draw an audience. When he took the cards from Rachel, Padma grabbed them from him, laughing. “Come on, Malfoy, don’t you know any better?” A few of the watchers giggled.

Draco glared at them, and felt the knowledge that he was the only Slytherin in the room hit him hard in the chest, leaving him breathless. There weren’t many Gryffindors left; Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil were there, but Longbottom and Potter hadn’t shown up for the party at all and Granger and Weasley had left hand-in-hand while Draco was still drinking in the corner with Greg. Maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe not.

He glanced involuntarily towards Thomas and found unreadable dark eyes watching him.

He lost the next round and removed his tie. Attempting calm -- he always liked to be the centre of attention at school, there wasn’t any threat in it now -- Draco slid it off slowly as he dramatically threw back his head, making his body into one long line. He threw it up in the air and someone caught it to cheers.

That was it; all he had left was shirt, trousers and boxers. The others had all lost bits and pieces, but they could afford to lose another round or two. Not Draco.

His heart was pounding, his body restless under all those eyes. Finnigan dealt, and Draco bit his lip as he stared at his cards. He couldn’t concentrate. 

He discarded three cards, and with the replacements found himself a run. He bit down on a grin.

He was really too drunk to play poker effectively.

Thomas lost. Draco’s cards were only bettered by Finnigan’s.

But Draco relaxed too fast, because he lost the next round.

Finnigan whooped, and Padma laughed, the sounds drawing the attention of the room, people gathering like hyenas scenting prey already brought down. Draco rolled his eyes, fighting the blush that threatened to stain his pale skin as he unbuttoned his shirt. He slid it off, trying for a little showmanship, and drew a ragged cheer.

He held his left arm close. There was a pale, ragged scar left when the Dark Lord died. Perhaps in the dim firelight they wouldn’t notice. 

He shivered a little, despite the fire and the body heat in the room; it was still a Highlands castle in October, and Draco told himself that was why. Padma was eyeing him, and so was Thomas, and he could feel the gaze of the rest of the party: hungry, even predatory.

His nipples hardened in the slight chill, and he heard a few titters and comments from the audience. He ducked his head, watching Thomas deal with ferocious attention.

They’d stop staring soon; Draco was hardly an Adonis. Living in constant fear for two years, not to mention quitting Quidditch, had not left him with the body dreams were made of.

“Are his nipples actually hard?” called someone. Parvati Patil.

Padma put one thumb on his nipple and Draco jerked back automatically. “Yes,” she called. She was grinning but her eyes were cold and unwavering on Draco’s.

She and her sister had suffered under the Carrows.

Two more rounds, and the tension was growing. Draco tried to take and discard cards without the underside of his left arm showing. It bothered him more and more the longer the Dark Mark scar was exposed, far worse than the mere fact of his bare chest being visible.

Finnigan was down to one sock before things started getting serious. Maybe Draco could still claw this back, could make it something where they’d all be amusingly half-dressed together, not just him with them all eyeing him and his heart in his throat --

The cards passed him again without giving him a chance to deal. “He just can’t be trusted,” Finnigan explained loudly, to an appreciative laugh.

“You let Blaise deal,” Draco heard himself say.

“Right, Malfoy,” Thomas said. “It’s not about being Slytherin.”

Draco went breathless. He fumbled as he tried to pick up his cards, and ended up ducking under the table to grab what he’d dropped. “You can’t hide under there, Malfoy,” someone said loudly, to general laughter.

Draco didn’t lose the next round, but it was close.

“D’you think he wants to get naked in front of us? Dirty boy.”

“You know what they say about purebloods, they’re all deviants.”

“He’s probably gagging for it.”

Draco bit his lip, staring at his cards. His mind was fuzzy with drink, his tongue parched from alcohol and anxiety. He’d done well in card games before, he should be able to --

He saw a look pass between Padma and Finnigan. He wasn’t sure, but he thought maybe --

Draco lost. His stomach plummeted as he stared round the table at everyone’s hands. He glanced up into their faces, and saw different expressions: Thomas was unreadable again, Rachel amused, Finnigan laughing with a hint of an edge, Padma waiting to see what he’d do. He couldn’t think; the rest of the party was whooping.

Maybe he could leave. Storm out. They couldn’t _make_ him stay. But then tomorrow --

They were yelling, “take it off!” It became a chant, beating at his ears, his mind.

If things were different, he’d be laughing. Hamming it up for the crowd, deliberately melodramatic. 

The pressure of the room, pushing at him, it was too much. Draco stood, and a roar went up. It was amazing how much noise fewer than twenty people could generate. He undid his top button then unzipped the fly, with a smirk that he could feel wavering on his face. He dropped his trousers and kicked them away, spreading his arms. Draco felt the loss of protection acutely.

He tried to summon that old pretence of confidence, the Draco who’d done impressions and worn badges and screamed at Potter in public, who’d wanted eyes on him with that pureblood confidence that everyone would be interested in what he had to say. He couldn’t. But he could still do impressions -- this one of fifteen-year-old Draco Malfoy, young idiot with the world at his feet.

He fisted his hands above his head. “Yeah, you want me!” he called. “Wow, if I’d have known it’d get this reaction I’d have dropped trou sooner.”

There was a ripple of laughter. Draco could bring them to him, he could do it --

“Come on, Malfoy,” said Finnigan loudly. “I know you’ve always wanted to stand in your underwear while people cheer -- ”

“But we’ve got a game to finish,” said Thomas.

The room went quiet. Draco swallowed as he returned to his seat. The wood was cold under him, now he was in just his boxers. Thank Merlin they were plain blue, not the Slytherin-green ones his mother had sent or his favourites with the Snitches. 

The game resumed, but no one was talking about teachers or Quidditch any more. The veil of normality, that this was all just classmates having a party with no ugly history between them, was fading. Draco couldn’t let it disappear. If it did, who knew what they’d do -- tomorrow, or tonight with no teachers’ eyes on them, in this little world. He needed to keep the delicate balance, that this was all just typical oversexed teenagers at a boarding school. What other reason would they need to have an appetite for his humiliation?

Everything was fine. Just a bit of fun.

And if he was right about Finnigan and Thomas working against him -- maybe Padma too, cheating to make him lose -- well, let them. He couldn’t provoke a fight.

The audience were watching him. Lavender Brown bent her head close to Parvati’s smooth dark one, muttering something, and Parvati’s laugh rang out.

Draco looked at his cards, trying to focus, to calculate the odds. He thought he could do it. He tried to relax against his chair, feigning confidence, then flinched forward from the cool wood. 

There was a frisson to all this. To people watching eagerly, waiting to see him naked. Even their wanting to embarrass him, wanting him to lose.

Draco could feel himself starting to harden, just slightly. He tried to shift so it wouldn’t be obvious, but he was only in his boxers. Had the whispers and giggles increased? Was he imagining it?

“Malfoy?” Finnigan’s voice. “How many cards’re you drawing?”

Draco looked round the table, blinking. Distracted, he’d missed their expressions as they took in their cards. He discarded two, and took a gulp of Firewhiskey along with his replacement cards.

Draco put down his hand first, and they went round the table. Rachel, then Thomas, then Finnigan. Draco watched desperately, feeling fear twist in his stomach as their hands went down. Better than his. Better than his. Better than his.

Padma slapped hers down with a flourish. “Looks like you lose, Malfoy.”

Finnigan stood with a whoop, cheering. Thomas followed him up. Draco sat frozen as they rounded the table and the room erupted in cheers. The two boys pulled him from his seat and he stumbled to his feet. Rachel was laughing. Draco’s head was full of the noise of the room. He couldn’t think. 

“Come on, come over here.” Hot hands on his chilled bare skin, pushing at his back and shoulders. They bent him over the table, and Draco was dizzy with humiliation as Finnigan and Thomas ceremonially pulled down his boxers. Finnigan delivered a healthy smack to his arse and Draco cringed. He couldn’t quite make himself straighten, they’d all see his cock. Finnigan tugged the boxers from round Draco’s feet, and Draco turned to see him waving them above his head.

Thomas glanced at him, and Draco met the dark eyes for a second. He looked away immediately, fear stealing his breath. Finnigan was louder, but he was doing it for his friend; quiet, artistic Thomas was the one out for revenge.

Not that he was the only one. Padma came forward with one of the discarded Gryffindor ties and pushed it into Draco’s mouth, tying it round the back of his head as a gag. Draco blinked at her, frozen by panic and the need to keep his left arm close so they wouldn’t see the Mark scar. She patted his cheek. “You’re a whiner, Malfoy, and nobody wants to listen to that.”

Then he felt Finnigan and Thomas pull at his shoulders, forcing him upright. They turned him round and the cheers went up. Draco shut his eyes. His cheeks hurt from the blush. He could hear people commenting on his soft cock, his chest, his arse; he tried not to recognise the voices, to know and remember who’d said what.

“Look at that blush!” Finnigan slung an arm round his neck and pinched his cheek. His whiskey-soaked breath was hot against Draco’s face. “Nice to have a loser who really feels it.”

Someone pinched his arse and he flinched. It was followed by a heavy grope, someone else squeezing an arse cheek, and Draco turned, flailing a blow.

“No no no, can’t have that,” Finnigan said, pushing him backwards, towards the crowd. 

There was a dangerous glint in Thomas’ eyes. “Why don’t we tie his hands?” he suggested cheerfully.

“What? No,” Draco tried to say, but it was muffled by the tie. He reached up to get rid of it and Padma was there, catching his wrists.

“We all agreed,” she said. “That’s what proper strip poker means for wizards and you know it.”

“You promised, Malfoy,” Rachel put in.

“We’re just going to help you keep your promise,” Padma agreed. “You do know you can’t be trusted, after all.”

Rachel pulled his hands behind him, crossing his wrists at the small of his back, and Draco felt himself tied up with another discarded tie. His left forearm was facing out, his scar exposed, and for a moment that mattered more than anything, more than being bound and gagged and bare before an unfriendly crowd.

He felt light fingers run along the Mark and shuddered, twisting his arm, fingers curling helplessly into fists. 

They frogmarched him forward: Thomas and Finnigan at either side, the girls behind. Finnigan dropped onto one of the conjured sofas, and Thomas pushed Draco down towards him. Unable to stop himself with his hands tied, Draco fell awkwardly, half into Finnigan’s lap. Finnigan groped his arse, making a show of it, mugging for their audience. Draco cringed.

“C’mon, pretty boy, show ’em what you’ve got!” Finnigan said.

“Let’s show them all what he’s got.” Thomas’ voice was cooler and harder than Finnigan’s; it sounded out of place amidst the laughter, but Draco knew it wasn’t and his stomach dropped. He looked up to find Thomas reaching for him, hauling him to his feet. Draco felt intensely unprotected, naked and surrounded by students in jeans and big jumpers and robes. Thomas pulled at him and he almost tripped, still drunk.

Thomas towed him towards a cluster of seventh-year Ravenclaws, then pushed him amongst them. Draco felt hands, too many to count or to track where they came from: touching his chest, stroking his arms, grabbing at his thighs. Draco shut his eyes, hiding from the humiliation, then opened them in panic as the Ravenclaws, laughing, pushed him towards Yvonne and Georgia, Hufflepuffs from two years below. Giggling, they stroked his chest, and Yvonne planted a kiss on him round the gag. Draco could feel himself jerking pointlessly at the tie binding his wrists, unable to stop even as he only pulled it tighter. Georgia reached for his soft cock, rubbing it with a pretend-coy look at the rest of the room, and Draco jerked backwards. He shouldn’t react, he couldn’t, but it was beyond him to hide his reactions right now.

They sent him on, passing him helplessly round the room: from person to person, shoved into people’s arms, staggering dizzily about. Then he was in Thomas’ arms, and Thomas had his hand on Draco’s cock. Draco made a low sound of defeat as Thomas stroked him and he felt himself hardening. He drooped forward, his hair falling over his sweaty forehead, trying to hide his face.

“Oh, he wants it!”

“He’s pretty big, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, not bad.”

“Merlin, look at him squirm. I wish I had a camera.”

Draco panted, breathing heavily through the gag as Thomas stroked him pitilessly. Sparks of pleasure were starting to reach him through the haze of alcohol and embarrassment and he couldn’t bear it. He glanced up, trying to read Thomas’ face, and for a moment their eyes met. Terror swamped him at the focused, hot rage visible in Thomas’ eyes.

At Draco’s expression, Thomas jerked back like he’d been burnt. Draco reeled dizzily for a moment before he was grabbed from behind by a trio of students and pulled backwards.

Draco made a strangled noise as Alicia Hartnett teased the head of his cock; he thrust into her hands without meaning to, drawing a laugh. A Hufflepuff boy Draco didn't know teased one of his nipples into hardness, then pinched it hard. Draco flinched and the boy laughed and ruffled his hair. “Purebloods’re all little deviants, he’s into this. Right, Malfoy?”

Draco stared at him. His voice felt lost from humiliation and shock, even aside from the gag.

“Bring him over here!” called Finnigan.

“Yeah, we’re the ones who beat him,” said Rachel, and Draco swore silently about the Hufflepuff sense of fair play. “We should get more fun out of him.”

He was dropped into Finnigan’s lap, scrabbling awkwardly to get his balance. Finnigan’s jeans were rough against Draco’s pampered bare thighs. He ducked his head, trying to avoid Finnigan’s blue eyes, bright from booze and cruel laughter. Finnigan groped him some more, playing up to the crowd, laughing. But the sound of the watching students was turning; they could see Draco’s scar. Things were getting louder and lewder, people drunk and caught up in the moment and the vengeance. Draco was so tense he was almost shaking; the dark memories in the room were swirling around, rumbling like thunder. 

Finnigan’s hands got more invasive, teasing between his arsecheeks. Draco flinched hard, hearing himself make a frightened sound through the gag as Finnigan stroked up his crack. The watching students roared with laughter and so did Finnigan, but he took his hand away. Maybe he wasn’t willing to cross that barrier.

If he could just speak. If the gag wasn’t there, if he could make himself talk -- he could remind them they were the good guys. They’d hardly want to give up the moral high ground just for this, but he didn’t know if they’d remember that now.

“C’mon, pass him over -- yeah, like -- good.” Draco found himself half-sitting, half-lying on the conjured sofa between Thomas and Finnigan. He squirmed, trying to sit up straighter -- as if it’d make him any more imposing -- and then Padma, standing by the sofa, grabbed him by the hair. It pulled his head back, and she jerked the tie out of his mouth before swooping down for a kiss.

Her mouth was hot and possessive on his, biting sharply at his mouth. Draco felt hot, overbearing hands on him as Padma kissed him -- on his chest, his cock, his legs. He didn’t know who or what they’d do next, and he squirmed desperately as Padma took her time with his mouth.

She let him up and he took great gulps of air, feeling lightheaded from humiliation and unwilling arousal. Thomas and Finnigan were half-mauling him, and Rachel leant over the back of the sofa to play with his nipples.

People closed in, tighter and tighter, and Draco felt choked by body heat. Padma pulled his head back again, sharply enough to hurt, stroking threatening fingers sweetly down his throat. Draco swallowed against the feather-light touch and shut his eyes against her invasively sharp dark eyes.

“Look how he twitches when you play with his nipples.” Rachel’s voice.

“I know! Seamus, try playing with his balls, see if he -- ”

“Spread ’em, Malfoy, we want to see -- ”

Someone pinched his inner thighs and he yowled. There was a cheer in response and Finnigan’s hand on his cock, getting faster. He could feel himself start to tremble; they were going to make him come, they weren’t going to let him go until they’d seen that, until they’d made him shake and lose control.

Padma let him up again and Draco stared round. A few people seemed unnerved, flicking their eyes away from his; others were eyeing him greedily. A few -- the Gryffindors left, especially -- there were bad memories in their eyes. This was payment in kind.

It was an orgasm. It wouldn’t cross any barrier too terrifying for them, it wouldn’t be anything they couldn’t come back from. 

Thought faded from there. It was just sensation, just emotion as they wound him up unbearably, more hands than he could keep track of inescapably learning his skin. They commented back and forth, sharing ways they’d found to make him gasp or flinch or shudder.

“Oh yeah, he’s nearly there,” Finnigan said.

“He’s gonna make a mess of himself any second now,” Thomas said, and Draco turned his head to the side, trying to bury his face away from the crowd as they whooped. Padma pulled him back, relentless, slipping fingers into his mouth. 

“Look how red his cock is,” someone said. “He’s so pale, you’d never think…”

“And his face,” Thomas said. “He’s gonna remember this.”

Long quivers were going through Draco, unwilling arousal blurring his mind. He couldn’t stop his hips pumping as he thrust, following the rhythm they set as they pumped his cock. He heard himself moan round Padma’s fingers, the sound going pained as Rachel twisted a nipple viciously and his cock jerked in response. Finnigan dragged at one thigh, spreading his legs further. He was overwhelmed, unable to think or resist any more as he was stroked and worked and hurt; Draco came, helpless, shuddering as Finnigan kept stroking him through it. The only sound he could hear past the rush of blood in his ears was the cheering as he came, half-sobbing. Padma freed his mouth in time for Draco’s mewling to ring humiliatingly round the empty classroom: Thomas and Finnigan were merciless, still touching him where he was sensitive even as he tried to twist away.

Finally they stopped. They stood up, even, and left him alone on the sofa. Draco curled in on himself. He was cold and shivering and he didn’t know if the two were related; his arms were still tied, and his shoulders ached. After a while he looked up because the room was almost silent, almost empty, and Padma was pointing her wand at him. After a moment of formless terror she spoke a word and the tie unbound itself. 

Rachel was gone. Finnigan and Thomas were putting their clothes back on -- the little they’d lost, anyway. Thomas tossed Draco his stuff. “There you go.”

Draco nodded, wordless, and fumbled for his boxers, his shirt. His hands weren’t quite working right but he could hardly try sneaking back to Slytherin without his clothes. Thomas was still looking at him and Draco didn’t know what to do.

“Hey, er, good game, right?” Finnigan said. “Crazy. Night to remember, yeah?”

A great wave of some nameless emotion hit Draco, and he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t come close to finding the right sarcastic response to make Finnigan back off, let alone make him ashamed. He stared at them all wordlessly, and somehow it was enough to make them look away.


End file.
